


Family!verse Snippets

by GoddessofBirth



Series: family!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Smut, Snippets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been about a year since my last update to Spider Webs, and I honestly don't know if I'm ever going to get inspired to finish it.  BUT, I had all these bits and pieces of it lying around in my drafts, and it kills me to see them languishing there, so consider this post a collection of tiny views into Spider Webs and its sequel.  They're...sort of in chronological order, I think.  They'll all feel incomplete because they are, and without context they likely will just be confusing.  But, if you're interested, here they are...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles is in the room and halfway to his desk before he sees Derek sitting in the darkness.

 

'Oh my _God_!' he half shrieks, but he's just startled, not scared, and he grins wide.

 

'Holy hell, it's been a long time since we've done this.' 'This' being, Derek assumes, him coming in Stiles' window and lurking until he shows up. It's 1AM, and he's been sitting here for hours, claws gouging furrows in the arm of the chair, but in the dark, he's sure Stiles can't see that. _Hours_ , where he's clung to control simply by not moving.

 

Stiles is unbuttoning and shrugging out of his overshirt, reaching over and clicking on the desk lamp to give enough light for him to rummage around in his draw for a clean t-shirt. 'So,' he teases, 'come to check if my virtue's intact?'

 

'Is it?'

 

Stiles strips his t-shirt off, baring toned skin that's smooth until his navel, where a thin dusting of hair trails down to disappear under the waist of his jeans. He's been around the pack too long to be embarrassed about changing in front of any of its members, to even think before he does it.

 

'Ah ah ah, a gentleman never tells.' He's flying high, buzzing and contented like he's just discovered something new. Derek supposes he should be able to smell if he's had sex, but he can't get past the reek of Danny that covers him, as if he's somehow _rolled_ in him. He's never smelled of anything other than pack before, almost always of Derek, but Danny's scent is almost strong enough to drown that out.

 

Derek runs his teeth over the points of his canines, as Stiles toes off his shoes and kicks off his jeans, bare except for his boxers for two seconds too long before he shrugs into a clean, white undershirt and sprawls facedown on the bed. Danny's smell diminishes a bit with the clothing change, but it's not _enough_.

 

'So, what'd you need, grand puba?' Stiles is nuzzling deep into his pillow, making his voice come out muffled, his back muscles flexing as he stretches and burrows into the mattress.

 

'You weren't coming back to the house tonight?'

 

Stiles flops over onto his back, sending a fresh wave of scent flying through the room. 'Nah, I'm beat. I'll head over in the morning...well, later this morning. I know, sometimes I forget I actually have my own house, too.'

 

'You _stink_ ,' Derek finally manages to grit out, while the wolf is snarling _markhimtakehimsomeonehastouchedhim_ in a looping chant that thrums through his blood and his veins and demands an answer.

 

'It's called sweat, Alpha o' mine. S'what happens when you run around for hours in the laser tag arena. I won, by the way. Thanks for asking. Gotta admit it's kind of nice playing with someone I actually have a chance against, instead of supernatural talent that always kicks my ass.'

 

'No, you _stink_. Take a shower.' The order is a barely there growl, and Derek doesn't know how Stiles can't sense the gathering danger, or if he's just become so comfortable with the werewolves he's confident Derek wouldn't really hurt him.

 

'Ugh, and no. I'm beat. I'll think about it in the morning.' He curls on his side to face Derek. 'So, did you really want to know how it went?'

 

' _No_.' And before Derek can stop himself, he's vaulted from the chair and is looming over Stiles, knees on either side of him. 'I want you to go _shower_.'

 

'Whoa, whoa. _Whaa!'_ Stiles flails a bit beneath him until he's on his back again. 'Dude!' There it is, that hint of fear, and Derek is sick, sick, sick to his stomach at it. Stiles breath has tracked to short, gasp-y pulls, but he won't look at Derek. Something in his scent is changing, but the air is still too full of _that boy_ for Derek to concentrate on it.

 

'Stiles,' he hates the way his voice comes out in the wolf's voice, a rasping snarl, ' _shower_.'

 

'Okay, Jesus, Derek. Get off!'

 

Derek forces himself to slide back instead of press down, and ignores the angry scowl on Stiles face as he rips a clean pair of boxers from the drawer and stalks out of the room, muttering about bossy wolves and sensitive noses.

 

That should be the end of it. Derek should leave the way he came, know that Stiles won't sleep drenched in Danny, but instead soap and water and clothes that even when washed smell like the Hale house. Instead he's looking out the window, back to the door, when Stiles returns, water scent rolling off him.

 

'Happy now,' he hisses, the earlier shine of the night worn off under the weight of his irritation, and Derek gives a sharp nod.

 

He hears Stiles sigh in a long suffering sort of way, and the creak of the floor as he walks across it. Then he's _pressing_ against Derek's back, resting his hands on his shoulders and burying his face in his neck. Derek stiffens in one way, and then another, when he realizes what Stiles thinks he's doing.

 

'Stiles, you are _not_ puppy piling me. Go to bed.'

 

Stiles just clings tighter. 'Ah yeah, yeah I am. I have no clue what's going through that wolfy brain of yours, but you're jacked up like crazy. No way I'm letting you out on an unsuspecting populace until you're calmed down. Come on,' he tugs on Derek's arm. 'Even big bad Alphas need some pack time.'

 

All at once, Stiles logic sounds like perfect sense, even if it's not for the reasons he might think. He does this, and Stiles will smell like him again; he can put a leash on the wolf, and he can go back to the way things were. He doesn't resist as Stiles pulls him to the bed.

 

 

* * * * * *

Lydia sits up from where they've been leaning against the a tree trunk for hours, right at the edge of the Stilinksi property. 'Oh god, can we go now? You realize this is bordering on Derek style creepy, right?'

 

Adam just shakes his head, listening intently to the interaction taking place in Stiles' bedroom. 'It was a good plan, but I told you before we started it's too dangerous to leave him unsupervised right now. Do you have _any_ clue how close he is to killing Danny right now? How easily he could have accidentally hurt Stiles? If he keeps holding back, he's going to hurt somebody, and if he snaps, better to do it here than when he's alone with no one to stop him. So no. Until he stops being such an idiot, we're sitting.'

 

Lydia rolls her eyes, but scoots back into Adam; he loops his arm back around her waist. 'There's no way Derek would hurt Stiles. He couldn't.'

 

'He wouldn't mean to. And if he did – you have no idea what happens to a wolf after that. That violence isn't going to settle until he accepts what's already there. The imperative we have, to protect what we've taken, at any cost..bonded werewolves...he will kill for Stiles. And Stiles – not even one of us, and you wouldn't think he had it in him, but he gets this look...

 

Lydia watches the way the moonlight glints off her perfect manicure for several silent minutes, while the sounds of Stiles maneuvering Derek into the bed filter out. She gives Adam a sideways glance. 'Would you? For me?'

 

The bond they're creating is different than the one between his brother and Jackson, Derek and Stiles, formed first by their human sides and then their wolves, as opposed to the reverse, but it's no less strong, so his answer is absolute truth.

 

'Yes.'

 

'Good,' she smiles, deadly. 'Because I'd rip the throat out of any bitch who tried to touch you.'

 

And just like that, he falls in love with her just a little bit more.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Kellen runs down the hallway at Argent's heels, tugging Jackson along with him. He doesn't think he's ever going to let him out of his sight again, his beautiful, brave, _stupid_ boy who almost died saving all their lives. It was a confusing thing, feeling simultaneously proud of him while wanting to crowd him into corners to shout at him.

 

'Left or right?' Argent hisses back, pausing on the balls of his feet at the end of the hall, darting a glance around the corner at the opposing routes.

 

Both Jackson and Kellen sniff – even though Jackson doesn't know his mother, he knows Kellen's scent like his own, and she'll carry something of him with her. They unerringly turn to the right and Argent doesn't wait for a confirmation, just sets off running again, gun out and ready to fire at the slightest hint of trouble. He's strangely determined for a man that kills their kind on a regular basis, and Kellen's still not sure exactly how Stiles convinced him to help as much as he has, against other _humans_ ; he can't be doing it simply because of the tentative truce he holds with his cousin's pack.

 

They're halfway down the hall when Kellen freezes, sniffs and darts to the door beside him. It's locked, but before he can begin to debate how to open it, Argent is there, pulling a handgun, screwing on a silencer and simply shooting the lock out. Jackson is staring at him open mouthed – Kellen takes a moment to be disgusted by the simple fact that he thinks even this is insanely attractive – and Argent shrugs.

 

'Not my first rodeo.' He gives a hard nod to Kellen. 'Either you open the door, or get out the way so I can.' Despite his offer, as soon as Kellen swings the door out, Argent has shouldered past him, and slipped in the room, both guns at the ready. It's not necessary. The only occupant is a woman strapped to a hospital gurney.

 

His mother.

 

'Oh Elizabeth,' he hears Argent murmur, but before that can even register as odd, the man is already at her side, his hands frantically passing over dials and tubes.

 

This...this is not the hunter he's known for the last two weeks. The distance he keeps between himself and everyone but his daughter is seemingly non-existent here, he acts like he's actually _concerned_ about his mother's welfare.

 

'Help me,' he snaps at Kellen, bringing him out of his daze, and then barks at Jackson. 'You! Guard the door!' Jackson rolls his lips back to expose his fangs, but Argent is neither scared nor impressed. 'Yes, wonderful. Keeps those out for any guests.'

 

Kellen runs a comforting hand down his arm as he goes, and is gratified to feel Jackson relax. His mother is unconscious, likely kept that way by the four IV's in her arms, which Argent is efficiently removing, all while whispering _oh god what did they do to you_ under his breath, in a way that would seriously be starting to freak Kellen out if it weren't for Jackson's calming presence behind him.

 

'The straps,' Argent hisses, and Kellen gets to work unbuckling her restraints. He can't stand it, seeing her like this, deathly quiet and pale. She is strong, she is the rock, she is the woman who brought in strays and forged them into a pack that has been his family for as long as he could remember. He has new family now, but he can't imagine life without her at all.

 

'This should wear off, right?' Argent is in his face again. 'Now that it's not being continuously pumped in?'

 

Kellen's answering head jostle is somewhere between a shake and a nod. 'Yes. Maybe. If that's what's keeping her out. Her system should clean it up pretty quickly.' He can't stop looking at how _still_ his mother is, at least not until Argent slings his shotgun over his shoulder and goes to lift her. Kellen stands and blocks him. The hunter snorts and shakes his head.

 

'You and Jackson are better equipped to handle any trouble. You need your hands free.' It's logical, makes sense, but there's something else going on here he can't quite put his finger on. He moves back though, lets Argent scoop his mother up in a cradle against his chest, and moves out at his nod. Jackson follows, but not without narrowing his eyes at the hunter.

 

Chris is glad he's not alone in this rescue, because he's not paying proper attention to his surroundings, not paying proper attention to anything but the woman in his arms. She's the same, but she's not. Fuller, obviously, more filled out; not starving now, but age has only made her more striking, the promise of her younger beauty fulfilled.

 

He's half convinced himself, these last few weeks, that this is all a mistake, that his memory is playing tricks on him. Almost three decades is a long time to remember a face you knew for less than a month, and there's no way _his_ Elizabeth could be one of these creatures. A coincidence of names, of coloring, of timing. But the second he sees her on that gurney, he's right back at fifteen, and he knows what he's been telling himself is a lie. He would know her anywhere.

 

It's stupid. Stupid that a silly, childhood encounter should mean so much, should cause his gut to twist and his palms to sweat, and terror that she might not wake up make his heart race in his chest. At least they're exerting themselves hard enough that any werewolf listening won't be suspicious of the increase.

 

It's funny, really, the way fate plays out. The Hales and the Argents. The Argents and the Hales, like a goddamned merry-go-round. Is this all some big _joke_ to the cosmos? Is some god or angel laughing their asses off right now at these twists? How much more? How much more is he going to have taken from him because of who they are, because of the _fucking_ family business. His business. His daughter's business now.

 

He wonders how many people Elizabeth has killed. He wonders if he would be able to kill her. His father could. Kate – it's best not to think of Kate, or his late wife. Too much anger, too much regret, too much guilt. He shoves it down, and concentrates on not jolting Elizabeth more than he has to.

 

He's vaguely aware they've managed to get out of the building without any trouble, makes the adjustment in his stride from concrete to uneven ground, and then to more uneven forest floor. It's when they're halfway to the check-in point that Elizabeth's eyes flash open, mutating wildly between hazel and red as she begins to gag and struggle. He drops to his knees and flips her over, holds her up as she vomits repeatedly. She's still trying to fight, even as her body rebels, and he can hear Kellen turning back and moving toward them. He holds up a halting hand, not having any clue if he'll obey, and pulls Elizabeth's hair from her face.

 

'Shhh...it's okay. It's okay. You're out. You don't need to fight. You're safe.' She vomits one more time, swinging her arm up to bat him away. He has no idea why Kellen hasn't intervened, but a soft 'Christ, Elizabeth,' slips out of his mouth. She freezes, and then whirls on the balls of her feet to face him. She's not wolfed out, in perfect control, and she recognizes him as quickly as he had recognized her.

 

'Chris?'

 

He gives a half grin. 'Hey, Elizabeth.' He tucks her hair behind her ear and let's his thumb linger on her cheekbone. 'Been awhile.'

 

Kellen watches the scene unfold, frozen in exactly the same place he's been since he sees Argent _touch_ his mother. Sees him go unthinking into a fight or flight situation with a disoriented Alpha, unarmed and defenseless. This is not...something is wrong.

 

He leans over to Jackson, feels the curve of his cheekbone against his; this needs to be over and over soon, so he can take him properly and his wolf can settle down.

 

'Bambi,' he whispers, not taking his eyes off his mother and the hunter, 'do you know what's going on?'

 

Jackson reaches out blindly and laces his fingers with Kellen's with unerring accuracy. 'I think...' he says slowly, 'I think they know each other?'

 

It certainly looks that way; there's a certain expression on his mother's face she reserves for pack, and in no way, shape or form would Argent be running his hands down any other wolf's hair. He smells the approach of Adam and Lydia. This is good, six of the ten have returned; the odds are going up they're all going to get out of this place alive. He waits for his mother to acknowledge them, but she seems caught up in something he doesn't understand; there's a hard knot in his stomach as he thinks about the fact that Chris has always carried an odd hint of Adam's scent.

 

'Where...where did you come from?' Elizabeth's hand is tracing the line of his jaw, and Chris knows he should be careful, should be backing away until he assesses if she's going to lose it and kill them all, but this is _Elizabeth_ , and he knows what her skin feels like and what her mouth tastes like, and what her laugh sounds like. And _fuck_ it's all getting mixed up and complicated in his head, more than the last few years have caused, more than a hunter can afford. But he leans into her touch just the same.

 

'Your boys thought they might need a hand getting to you.'

 

'But they don't –' she's trying to put pieces she doesn't have together. 'They don't know anything about you.'

 

_You'd be surprised_ , he starts to say, but only gets the _yo_ – out before he's bodily jerked away from her, flung halfway across the clearing.

 

'Hands _off_ ,' Adam snarls, standing between his mother and Chris. He's flashing eyes and teeth and claws, and Lydia is circling behind him, not sure what's going on but prepared to back him up. Kellen is watching it all, eyes flying from person to person, probably deciding if he needs to intervene. Chris rolls to his feet and stands, not pausing as he flips the shot gun off his shoulder and pumps it one handed.

 

'Back off boy. Nobody's hurting anyone.'

 

Adam snarls and steps forward, Chris lifts the rifle, and then Elizabeth yells ' _Stop_.' Her voice reverberates with the command of a senior Alpha, and Adam immediately halts. He may lead his own pack, but in the end he'll still answer to her.

 

Elizabeth looks at Kellen, sparing him a smile that widens when she sees his hand in Jackson's, before turning her attention to the stand off in front of her. She takes in Adam's stance, then Chris's, flicking her eyes to his weapons and dress and then back to Adam again, and Chris sees the second she puts it together.

 

'Mmm,' her face is rueful. 'I'm guessing your dad wasn't really a traveling salesman, huh?'

 

Chris shakes his head. 'No. I didn't know. Not then.' And then because he can't help himself – 'You never called.'

 

She closes her eyes. 'I know. There were...reasons.' She's starkly aware of her sons watching this piece of history play out, and she doesn't know what to feel, or what to think, and she can hear the approach of at least four more people in the distance. Of all the things she has ever imagined for Chris, this was never one of them. He slings his gun back over his shoulder and sticks his hand in his jacket pocket.

 

'I kept it, you know.' He pulls his hand out and holds up a dingy, gray arrowhead between his thumb and forefinger, and three decades collapse all at once.

 

She grins in a way that wrinkles her nose. 'I kind of kept something of yours, too.'

 

Both their eyes flash to Adam and then back to each other and Chris nods. 'Yeah, I thought so.'


	3. Chapter 3

Kellen closes the door behind them and presses Jackson against the wall, grips his bloody t-shirt in his fists and pushes their foreheads together. Breathing. Just breathing. Jackson's fingers come up to twist through the hair at his nape.

 

'Kellen?'

 

'You almost died,' he whispers. Jackson's hand flattens out to stroke comfortingly through his hair.

 

'But I didn't.'

 

 

'No.' He pulls back so he can cover Jackson's cheeks with his palms and brush his thumbs over his temples. 'You saved Lydia and Stiles. Protected your pack.'

 

'I did, didn't I?' Jackson's grin is _exultant_ , bright and proud without any tinge of fear or uncertainty or vanity, or any of the one hundred and one other things he uses to hide his terror of never being good enough, of failure, of never becoming what Kellen has always known he is; He's beautiful, so goddamn beautiful and strong and whole, and Kellen whines deep in his throat, buries his face in Jackson's neck.

 

He's pressing deep into his skin, nuzzling hard enough to leave marks as he hooks a finger under the collar of Jackson's tee and shoves it out of the way so he can scent him, breath in Jackson deep enough to feel him in his bones, feel Jackson's heart rate rocket sky high as he starts nudging back at Kellen in return. He slides hands down Jackson's arms until he finds his wrists, brings them up and pins them against the wall on either side of his head.

 

Jackson immediately goes pliant, turns his head to the side to offer a long and tempting line of flesh, his chest heaving as he inhales long and deep to taste the change in the air. Jackson moves like sex; in Kellen's eyes he _always_ moves like sex, and in the past weeks he's taken to mouth breathing as much as possible as he waits to know Jackson will come to him ready.

 

But not anymore.

 

He lets his scent rage through him, lets the wolf taste it and howl at it and he licks long lines across Jackson's neck, feels the skin plump in subtle bruising.

 

'Bambi,' he says, voice a demand, a beg, a request, a command. 'Now. Please?'

 

The sound Jackson makes is a cross between a laugh and a sob as he curls his fingers down to slide over Kellen's. 'You're asking _me_? Because there was ever a chance in hell I'd say _no_?

 

No, of course not, but maybe Kellen would be a better person if he gives them time to shower, to clean up, to rest or remove the grime and sweat and blood from the day's work. Despite what people seem to think, though, he isn't selfless or imbued with perfect control – a control that Jackson makes less just by arching against him – and he _wants_. He has no clue how his cousin held out for the years he did, but Kellen has no intention of holding out for even the next five minutes.

 

He lets his fangs drop, carefully, oh so carefully and just a little, and scrapes across Jackson's collarbone to the hollow of his throat, then with heady deliberation, bites, feeling the skin give in a seamless whisper.

 

It's like a bomb goes off in Jackson. He whines piercingly loud as his body convulses, and then he's ripping his hands from Kellen's, claws fully extended as he messily shreds Kellen's shirt to pieces and lets it flutter to the floor.

 

'Shh...shh,' Kellen whispers against his neck, tonguing the wounds that are already healing, because there has to be some gentleness here, especially for a boy that's never done this before. He won't take him against the wall, not this time, no matter what the wolf is demanding. Instead he flips them around, grabs the hem of Jackson's shirt and pulls it over his head. Places that had been torn and bleeding are healed over now, most of the blood even rubbed away in the motions of the day, but as he backs Jackson toward the bed, still making vague comforting noises as the younger boy's want makes him uncoordinated and restless, he takes time to mouth the ball of his shoulder, the line of his top rib.

 

The back of Jackson's knees hit the bed at the same time Kellen mouths his nipple, and they tumble down, Jackson' legs sprawled off the side as Kellen lands braced over him. His cheeks are stained red and his lips are swollen and he already looks gorgeously debauched, without them having even really started. Kellen squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to gain more control, to keep from taking him right there, right this second, but Jackson is doing nothing to help him.

 

'Come on, come on,' He's chanting, dragging at the belt loops of Kellen's jeans. 'Now!'


	4. Chapter 4

Adam presses his lips against Lydia's shoulder, careful not to wake her. She's fierce, even in sleep, ready to take on and conquer the entire world without breaking a sweat. Everything about her makes her the perfect match for him, the perfect person to argue with him, to learn with him, to keep him strong and to keep a pack together. He has no clue how he managed to be stupid enough not to see it right off, but he's glad she was stubborn enough not to let him get off so easily. Right now she's the only thing keeping him from getting unwisely overwhelmed by the events of the day.

 

Everything...everything has been too much, too fast. Finding his mother, finding out the Hunters are the least of their worries now...those are things he finds easy to absorb, to file and catalog and figure out how to deal with. It's the other things - ones spoken and ones it's too easy to figure out on his own - that are driving him crazy as they race in circles in his mind.

 

He needs fresh air. He needs to be able to breathe again, and so he slides out of bed and pulls on jeans and a t-shirt. He steps out of the room and leans against the walkway railing, staring out into the night and not able to miss the man and woman sitting on the hood of an SUV, too far away and voices too low for him to be able to make out anything more than a murmur.

 

The breeze smells like the early hours before dawn, but he's not surprised when the door next to his snicks open and Kellen pads out, bare feet making no noise on the grimy cement of the fifth rate hotel. He eyes him with a smirk.

 

'You look good.'

 

Kellen's grin is infectious as he nods, completely unrepentant of the fact he and Jackson were neither discreet nor remotely quiet. 'I feel good.'

 

'You finally put a ring on it?'

 

'I cannot believe you just made a Beyonce reference.' He shakes his head sadly before breaking into another wide smile. 'And yeah, I did.'

 

The hand Adam claps on his shoulder is congratulatory, and proud and happy and all sorts of other brotherly emotions he doesn't need to say out loud. 'He's a good kid.'

 

Kellen gets a look on his face that says he's thinking about details Adam most definitely does not need to know about, and so he does what any self respecting sibling would do and makes gagging noises. The moment of good humor slowly dissolves into seriousness as Kellen leans his forearms on the railing and catches sight of their mother and Argent on the SUV hood.

 

Kellen shakes his head. 'This is just crazy.' Out of all the revelations of the day, this one has somehow become the one hardest to examine.

 

'We know why he agreed to help now. He recognized mom when Stiles showed him the picture.'

 

Adam's not sure why Kellen sounds more amazed than upset when he answers. 'That's something though, don't you think? Knowing somebody's face after, what - Twenty nine years? And only knowing them a few weeks? And neither of them had a clue they were on opposite sides of the fence.' Adam feels Kellen's sideways glance, but declines to meet it, instead wishes he had a drink. The story Elizabeth had told them is vague enough that the holes practically scream the details she leaves out, and Argent hadn't offered anything at all. Adam's silence just encourages Kellen to keep going.

 

'I can't even imagine mom that young. They would have been what? Fifteen? Sixteen? They were probably each others first.' Yeah, that was one of those things it has been easy enough to read on their faces, without it having been explicitly confirmed, and Adam feels the churning in his stomach pick up again. He's not giving Kellen what he wants, though, which is why he finally just cuts to the chase.

 

'You know he's your father, right?'

 

'I don't have a father,' he says automatically. 'I have a pack.'

 

'Jesus, really? That's what you tell kids when you don't want them to feel like they're missing –'

 

'She never told him; I think that's fairly indicative –'

 

Kellen has no qualms about interrupting him right back. 'Oh bullshit. Pretty sure that's _indicative_ of being sixteen and a runaway and freaked out and a werewolf, not some sign she didn't want to. He _kept_ that thing she gave him, and that note in the box? Obviously from him. You don't do stuff like that when somebody doesn't mean anything. Hate to tell you, but mom didn't always have things figured out, any more than Argent did.'

 

'It doesn't matter,' Adam insists stubbornly. 'It doesn't matter what they were. They're enemies now.'

 

'Yeeaaahh,' Kellen draws out skeptically, raising an eyebrow at the scene in the parking lot. 'They totally look like they hate each others guts.'

 

Adam doesn't answer, but his fingers tighten on the rail, and the metal creaks under the strain. Kellen waits another beat before moving on.'

 

'You know he knows, too, right? He's probably known the whole time; probably did the math as soon as he figured out how old you were.'

 

'I. Don't. Need. A father. I have a pack.' Then Adam pushes back off the railing and walks into his room, slamming the door hard enough that Lydia bolts upright, and out in the parking lot Elizabeth _and_ Argent's heads whip around toward the sound.

 

Kellen gives them an awkward half-wave before disappearing into his own room and curling around Jackson. Yeah, that went well.


	5. Chapter 5

There's no discussion of the fact there's another perfectly good bed in the room, no conversation at all as they slip off their shoes and lay, fully clothed, on top of the comforter, facing each other with their legs curled up so that their knees almost touch.

 

They've spent hours tiptoeing through the last twenty-eight years, and while there are still more things to say, now doesn't seem to be the time to do it, not when dawn is beginning to creep through the window. For a long while they simply stare at each other.

 

'We should sleep,' Elizabeth finally says. It's been a long night, a long day; the world as they know it has changed, and it's draining beyond the exhaustion of their bodies. 'I'm not sure we won't get left behind if we're not up in the next couple of hours.

 

Chris smiles, a brief half twitch of lip. 'They can try, but since I'm one half of the drivers, I think we'll be fine.

 

Her answering hum is a little humored, a little tired, and they fall silent again, but neither of them close their eyes. More time slips by and then Chris reaches a careful hand out and curls a strand of Elizabeth's hair around his finger.

 

'I feel like we've been here before.'

 

Her smile is wider than his had been. 'It does seem a bit familiar. Is it the motel room? The tacky comforter? The T.V. bolted to the wall?'

 

'All of that. None of that. Mainly because I still want to do this.' He's not fifteen, and she's not a runaway, and there are miles and miles of life between them now, but just like then, he doesn't let him think about the consequences, the obstacles, what they'll face in the aftermath. He just wraps his palm around the back of her neck and coaxes her toward him, fits his mouth over hers like it never left.

 

He's not fifteen, and she's not a runaway, and his hands are no longer unsure as he coasts them across her face and to her shoulders, letting his thumbs stroke the curve of her neck and the soft press of her clavicle. He's not fifteen, and she's not a runaway, and her arms are around his neck, tugging him until his weight is resting on her, one forearm braced by her head to keep from crushing her completely.

 

There is no hesitation here, no uncertainty. He pulls the borrowed t-shirt over her head only seconds before she's tugging at the hem of his, and then they're bare from the waist up, pressing skin against skin. He kisses her again, open and deep, all tongues and teeth, his hands flat and spread on either side of her head. It goes on for minutes, or hours, or maybe just seconds, before he urges her to her stomach, straddles her hips and finds the familiar dip and slope of her back.

 

She arches up when he runs his tongue down her spine, his thumbs following behind on either side. 'This,' he breathes into the small of her back. 'I remember this.' There have always been pieces of her, he realizes, in every woman he's ever loved, in every woman he's ever touched. All except the woman he chose to live his life with, and he thinks there was probably good reason for that.

 

Elizabeth reaches back and cards her fingers through his hair, grasps tight at the nape of his neck. 'Chris,' she says, low and throaty, body jerking when he closes his teeth over the base of her spine. He wonders who will dominate here, between a Hunter and an Alpha, or if it even matters. He bites harder, to see, to test, and she responds by yanking roughly on his hair, not enough to force his neck back, but just enough to have him groaning against her skin.

 

He slips fingers down her sides, across her hips, cants her hips up so that he can stroke thumbprints along her belly until they meet at the button of her jeans. He has them unsnapped and unzipped in the space of a breath, and she kicks her legs to help him slide them down her legs and off her feet, until she's gloriously, achingly, one hundred percent nude.

 

She uses his momentary absence to flip onto her back, and when he's discarded his own jeans, he moves back up her body, nipping her ankles and the inside of her knees and thighs until he's poised over her again. The way she feels against him makes him want to close his eyes to savor it, but he doesn't, because he's afraid he'll miss something; some minute detail in the way she shifts, in the way her pupils are blasted wide, in the way she undulates and stretches up to meet him.

 

Her voice is is honey rich when she speaks. 'I remember all of you.' She drags her hands across the muscles of his abdomen, watching as they twitch. 'But these are new.' There's a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, and he returns it easily, as he cups one of her breasts, catching a nipple between two fingers and watching it tighten.

 

'So are these. But I like them.'

 

She throws her head back and laughs, then cuts off abruptly into a breathy moan when he replaces his hand with his mouth. Her nails bite into his shoulder, his neck, while her teeth do the same to the lobe of his ear. He should be worried, he knows, with a werewolf having her canines so close to his jugular, but his instincts have apparently decided it's a lost cause, and have taken a permanent vacation. All he feels is the need to be inside her, to move with her legs wrapped around his hips.

 

He slides his way back down her body, his mouth leaving purple bruises as he goes. Maybe they'll be gone in a minute, in an hour, along with the burn from his stubble, but he likes how they look in the now. He spreads her thighs, dips his head, and tastes her – long and deep and lingering; holding her hips down with his forearm when she bucks up into him.

 

' _Chris,_ ' she hisses, her leg hooking around the back of his neck, urging him up. He pauses only long enough to turn his head and bite her thigh.

 

'Not yet,' he says. 'Give me this first, Elizabeth.' He looks up her body to see her watching him, her eyes a dark maroon. He shivers, nothing to do with the danger of her wolf so close to the surface, and everything to do with the way her tongue comes out and sweeps her bottom lip, the way her head drops back in implicit surrender and submission. It's no small thing, and he doesn't think she'll let him have the upper hand for long.

 

He curls his tongue inside her, tastes what she's giving him, doesn't feel ashamed at the rut of his hips against the sheets. When she comes, the sound she makes is exactly, _exactly_ the same as the sounds she made in that long torn down Motel 6, and his head is so caught between the past and the present that he misses the way her knees lock around his sides until she's pushed up and somehow flipped them. His head is at the foot of the bed, and she's leaning over him, her eyes a brighter red and her nose flaring as she leans down and runs her face up his neck, stills at his jugular and lightly places her teeth around it.

 

He has a gun underneath the mattress, and two rifles in the duffel back resting on the floor just under his head. He's trained for fighting in close quarters, for compensating for the lesser strength of humans against werewolves. All of these things run at lightening speed through his brain before he pulls his hand up from where it brushes against the canvas of his bag and cups the back of her head. He mimics her earlier gesture, tips his head back and to the side to bare his throat. This isn't about winning, this is about trust, and he thinks that maybe the whole path of his life, from his mother's abandonment, to Elizabeth, to Allison's decision to choose Scott, has led him here.

 

Elizabeth nips him, sharp and light, with human, flat teeth, and he feels her lips curve against his skin. She skips up to his earlobe and her breath tickles as she whispers. 'That was hard for you, wasn't it?'

 

He grips her hips and aligns her more fully against him. 'You have no idea.'

 

He licks at her bottom lip, almost swallowing her answer. 'Oh, I think I do.'

 

There's a moment, right before he pushes inside, that he pulls back and seethes in frustration. He's not prepared for this, hasn't planned on this. There are no condoms in his hastily packed bag, nothing to use as protection. He considers not giving a shit about waking people up, and going to pound on someone's door – even though he's not sure everyone that's able in their disparate group isn't trying to breed someone – when Elizabeth shakes her head.

 

'You can't give me anything. My system would kick it out.'

 

He's not fifteen, and she's not a runaway, and he's not stupid enough to lose his head, but he knows he's clean anyway, and the other -

 

She shakes her head at the unspoken question. 'Not the time.'

 

And then there's no more talking, at least not more than curses and whispers and broken sounds of half formed words, because she tilts her hips and he slips inside, slow and steady, until he's fully seated and her head is flung back as she rides him. His hands are on her hips, guiding her, steadying her, until they both start to lose rhythm, and he pulls her down against him, sweat making their skin wet and slick while he plants his feet and thrusts into her, movements more a grind than anything.

 

He reaches between them, palms her hard and flicks his thumb repeatedly over her clit, gritting his teeth as she clenches so tight around him he thinks he could see stars.

 

'Elizabeth,' he draws out, turns his head to fit under her chin and bites hard underneath her ear. She keens, low and earthy and he thinks if he could see her eyes, they would be full red, and then she's coming around him, over him, and he kisses her deep, tongue plunging hard as he holds her tight against him and thrusts erratically, falling after her.

 

Her breath is warm against his neck as she collapses into his shoulder, and he runs a hand through her hair, rubs it down her back, sliding across silk and sweat.

 

'I think,' she says breathily, 'I think we've improved with age.'

 

He kisses her temple, turns them to the side so that his legs tangle with hers, and doesn't worry about answering her. She already knows he agrees.

 


	6. Chapter 6

He brands himself when he's twelve. Pulls fire and earth from the air and paints swirls of words and symbols across his chest, doesn't do anything to deaden the pain that makes him scream and scream and scream, until he's hoarse and he feels the immense rush of power underneath his skin turn from a rushing river, to a stream, to a trickle.

 

The Professor is angry... _furious_ when he realizes what Jesse has done. _Do you want to make yourself vulnerable to every third rate monster and demon that crawls their way out to the surface? Are you bloody suicidal?_ And he knows a part of the Professor means it; is fond of him as far as he can be, enough that he cared for a child he could have completely exploited, but the caring in and of itself is exploitation. He has his uses, and as much as he depends on his caretaker, he knows he will one day be expected to repay that kindness, and Jesse has just stymied the thing that the Professor has invested in.

 

But Jesse will take his chances, will accept the fact he can no longer block out the sun or cause fire to rain on New York city; will be happy with simply being able to turn water to wine (happy 15th birthday to himself), or moving from Boston to Dallas in the space of a thought (where he throws up copiously from motion sickness), if it means he doesn't accidentally destroy everyone around him with barely a thought.

 

The first time it happens is when he's nine, and he's tantruming and he forgets in his childish brain that any passing thought can become reality. When the static clears from his brain, there are bodies at his feet and he becomes an orphan all over again. The Professor finds him a week later.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The coffee house is crowded, typical for a Friday night, and Danny manages to snag the one free table in the corner, drops his green tea on it and swings his feet up to prop on the chair opposite. The folder in front of him holds three different job offers and subsequent employment contracts from various corporations around the country. The world is his oyster; the same skills that made him a juvenile offender now make him the cream of the crop – even the U.S. Government is lobbying to get a piece. But a part of Danny just doesn't want to leave Beacon Hills.

 

He takes a sip of tea and pulls the first contract out, intending to go over it with a fine tooth comb. He doesn't know why he feels the pull to stay; his parents moved back to Hawaii his freshman year of University, and he and Jackson have grown apart. They're still friends, of course, nothing could break that totally, but the closeness, the _I'd do anything for you_ part of the friendship has slowly faded, because Jackson has never stopped hiding whatever it was that happened to him in Junior year, has never trusted Danny enough to let him in on whatever changed his life and gave him balance in a way Danny couldn't. And Danny, well, Danny can only give so much without getting the same in return. He's never been a masochist.

 

And he's not staying for Stiles, he's known that wasn't happening ever since he first met Derek “Miguel” Hale and let Stiles manipulate him into breaking the law in exchange for a shirtless exhibition. Of course, that doesn't stop him from putting his chips on the table and asking Stiles out when Lydia mentions he's finally leaving Beacon Hills, finally doing something about that massive potential Danny has always seen in him. And the date...the date was good, was fun, and Danny thinks he probably could have gotten an encore, especially after the end of date kiss, but Danny had known it wasn't happening for Stiles, not really. And if the way he sees Derek pinning Stiles to the side of the Stilinski house and practically eating his face off two days later, he'd been right.

 

Danny suspects Lydia used him as a pawn to gain that specific result. He would be more upset, but while he likes Stiles, he's never loved him, and there are always plenty of fish in the sea.

 

'Excuse me.' A quiet tenor breaks his concentration and he looks up to see a mass of not quite black hair and hazel eyes, the owner of said attributes watching him unblinking. 'Do you mind?' He looks pointedly at the chair Danny's feet are propped on. 'It's the only empty chair left.' He's holding an actual mug, contents steaming. Who the fuck brings their own cup to a coffee house? Put together with the shaggy hair cut – Danny automatically categorizes the length as “perfect amount to fist a hand in” - and the battered combat boots, he decides the boy is some kind of neo-hippie, with a bit of punk flair thrown in for flavor.

 

He sighs though, and moves his feet. 'No problem. Help yourself.' He shuffles his things until they're safely on his half of the now shared table.

 

Punk-Hippie with the pretty eyes, smiles - a flash in the pan before his face goes back smooth - and sits. He's brought nothing with him, just the drink, and he turns it around and around on the table as he looks around the coffee house. Sharing quiet space with strangers, who are occupied with their own tasks, Danny can do; nobody wants to talk, everyone just works. Sharing space like this though; his ingrained politeness rears its ugly head. So he pulls the pen back out of his mouth.

 

'I'm Danny,' he offers. He's been told by more than one academic adviser that he needs to drop the childish moniker, shift to his proper name of Daniel, but he's been Danny his whole life and he'll be damned if he changes now. 'Are you from the area?'

 

The boy startles, like he had no idea someone would attempt to talk to him, and his coffee splashes out of the mug and onto his hand. He hisses and shakes it, before bringing the hand to his mouth and sucking at the burnt spot, right in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

 

'Sorry,' Danny grimaces.

 

Hippie-Punk shakes his head, strands of hair falling in and then back out of his eyes. He tucks them behind his ears before replying. 'No, it's fine. I get...a little lost in my thoughts sometimes. Jesse,' he offers. 'And just temporarily. My guardian is here on personal business.'

 

'Guardian? Aren't you a little..old - ' Hippie-Pun...Jesse...couldn't be _that_ young.

 

'Oh...yeah. Eighteen. But he...um...he helps out sometimes. When I...' Jesse trails off and blinks rapidly, lifts his mug and takes a long swallow. 'My parents died a long time ago. He's all I have now.'

 

Danny wonders what's wrong with the kid, that he needs enough help to still warrant adult supervision. Then again, he is only eighteen. Even if it was only two years ago for him, he feels light years more secure now than he did then. And Jackson and Stiles _still_ live with their parents, although with Jackson, it's more of a place to store his things these day.

 

Danny debates whether more small talk is in order or if he can get back to work, but something about the way Jesse's eyes continue to roam the , without really making contact with anything, makes him continue the conversation.


	8. Chapter 8

'Shh, come here.' He pulls Jesse to him, and then down until he's sitting on him, straddling his lap. 'It's fine.' He thumbs away the dried blood flaking at the corner of Jesse's mouth. 'They're dicks.'

 

'Still...' Jesse trails of and his expression is slightly ashamed, like he's somehow embarrassed Danny by kicking the shit out of his asshole cousins. There are drops of blood obscenely staining the whiteness of his dress shirt, although his tie somehow escaped the carnage.

 

'Still, nothing,' Danny says, reaching out to loosen Jesse's tie. 'I should have warned you going in. There's a reason we only see them at weddings and funerals. He flips Jesse's collar up and pulls the tie over his head, tossing it on the table behind them. 'This is going to stain if you don't soak it.'

 

Jesse shrugs, his eyes shifting between where Danny's hands are resting on his hips to his lips and back again. 'Not a big deal. Not like I go to these things on my own. Ever.' The words are defensive, pouty, a reminder that Jesse is still a teenager, and whatever he's been doing, growing up with his guardian, it hasn't involved a whole lot of interaction with the

 

 

He kisses him, carefully, but not gently, and slowly unbuttons his shirt, pushes it down his shoulders and off his wrists, until he's left in his undertank, the muscles in his arms bunching and shivering when Danny brushes his thumbs across them. Danny pulls back as Jesse shudders into him, emotions flickering unshuttered across his face – awe, pleasure, the darker tones of lust – Danny watches them all as he hooks his fingers underneath the hem of the tank and hikes it up to reveal the tattoos underneath, so many, so thickly crowded together that it's the unmarked skin that's hard to find.

 

He knows whatever caused Jesse to get them, so young, is nothing good. It's evident in the way he skates around the subject, in the darkness he gets in his eyes when he looks at them.


	9. Chapter 9

Jesse is already awake when Danny opens his eyes. He's propped on his elbows beside him, staring out the window at the head of the bed. Danny rolls to his side, runs a light hand down the younger boy's back, over words he can't read, in patterns he can't decipher. In some ways they represent Jesse, still so much a mystery, despite the earnest youth on his face, despite how much Danny feels in his bones that he knows him.

 

He would never have done this otherwise.

 

'You okay?'

 

Jesse chews on his thumbnail, but grins around the motion, ducks his head a little. 'Yeah.' Red climbs up his cheekbones as Danny's hand brushes lower, lingers where the sheet drapes just under the curve of his ass.

 

'Sore?' Rhetorical question, really, because there's no way he isn't, not after last night. Danny's first time wasn't so long ago that he doesn't remember the foreign ache, the conflicting push/pull of sensation.

 

Jesse rests his head on his forearm. 'A little. Not bad.'

 

The sun is bright coming through the window, not late morning, but not early either, and it spreads strips of light over the both of them, over the whole room.

 

'Are you sure you shouldn't have called someone? Do you need to now?'

 

'Jesus, Danny!' Jesse makes a face and rolls to face him, the sheet slipping just a little bit lower. 'I'm not twelve.'

 

Danny snorts. 'I hope to hell not. You ever gonna tell me what these mean?' He dips a finger along Jesse's abs, tracing the black scroll work that cuts up and across his navel.'

 

'Maybe. One day. You'll regret it when I do.' That same shadow from last night passes over his face, and Danny leans in, pulls Jesse's bottom lip between his teeth and runs his tongue across it, licks the look away and rolls Jesse underneath him.

 

He brushes the hair out of his face and twists it between his fingers on the pillow. He tugs, just a little, as he keeps kissing Jesse, and when Jesse arches his back and drops his head back, Danny follows the line of his jaw to his ear lobe, then down to the hollow of his neck. There are sounds...every sound Jesse makes is layered with astonishment, like he can't believe his body is capable of feeling these kind of things, of doing these things, and Danny just keeps going, wanting to imprint everything about this experience on him. In the same way he had known he was just a distraction for Stiles, he knows Jesse isn't planning on sticking around, and he wants leave some part of himself in his memories, for more than just the guy he let take his virginity.

 

He's teething Jesse's stomach, and things are just sliding to the interesting side when he registers the pounding of feet up the stairs. Only one person has a key, and he barely manages to flip to his back and shield Jesse from view when the bedroom door slams open and Jackson comes barreling through.

 

'The _fuck_ , Jackson?' But Jackson isn't looking at him at all. He's focused on where Jesse's head is visible over Danny's shoulder, and the look on his face is pure murder. There's something...something not quite right about his eyes, and he's bared his teeth, a sound resembling a freaking _growl_ rumbling out. His hands clench and unclench at his side while tension runs through every line of his stance.

 

' _You_ ,' he spits out. 'What the _hell_ are you doing? What are you trying to –'

 

He doesn't finish, because another body streaks into the room, slams into Jackson and pins him against the wall. Danny vaguely recognizes the body bracketing Jackson hard into the Sheetrock as Kellen; he's only seen him a few times in passing, but he suspects Jackson wouldn't have let anyone else hold him down.

 

And holy fuck, Kellen has latched his teeth into the side of Jackson's neck, biting down hard enough that there's _blood_ dripping down Jackson's neck. Before Danny can even process or act, a lackadaisical whistle brings his attention back to the door.

 

There's a middle aged man peering into the room, wearing an impeccably cut suit as he surveys the scene with amusement. He shakes his head at Jackson and Kellen. 'Ah boys,' he says, before his gaze settles on Danny and Jesse.

 

'Morning, little hell.' Some type of brogue flavors his voice. Scottish maybe, or Irish; Danny can't be sure, but he feels Jesse tense behind him and he automatically adjusts to wrap a hand around his hip. The man raises an eyebrow. 'Looks like you've been busy.'

 

Jesse sighs and slumps, his chin coming to rest on Danny's shoulder. 'Hey, prof. Ever heard of calling first?'


	10. Chapter 10

'Your little one night stand is the anti-Christ. He happen to mention he killed his parents?'

 

'And you –' Jesse's voice causes Danny to whip around. His face is blank, empty, and cold; utterly emotionless. '– are a werewolf who was bred to be used as tool, and your lover is the son of the King of Hell. I don't think you have much of a leg for pedigree comparison.'

 

Jesse looks at Danny, the ice in his eyes cracking into something painful. 'I told you you would regret it, when you knew.'

 

This is fucking _insane_. Something in the water has caused everyone to go _insane_. 'Jackson –' Danny turns so that Jackson can let him in on the joke; say _ha ha_ in a call back to all the stupid pranks they pulled in high school. But his words disappear because Jackson is running his tongue over honest to God fangs, his eyes glowing an unnatural green and he has _claws_ instead of fingernails.

 

Kellen has his hand wrapped on his forearm, Danny thinks to hold him back from _something_ , but Kellen's appearance isn't any more reassuring, fangs long and sharp and his pupils and irises a solid black.

 

Danny feels strangely detached, even when Jackson snarls at Jesse, 'Get away from him!' and Jesse, back in that same emotionless voice, answers 'I can still strike you down from right here,' because the other man in the room, Jesse's guardian - The Professor - is still leaning impassively in the door, watching the interplay with an air of amusement.

 

Danny licks his lips, his voice sounding very far away as he asks, 'And you. Who are you?'

 

The man grins, pushes off of the door and walks closer, hands in pockets. 'Me?' His eyes fill to a fiery red and then return to normal in an instant. 'I'm the King of Hell, boy. But you can call me Crowley.' He grins, showing normal, blunt teeth.

 

Danny pushes himself to the edge of the bed and stands, ignoring Jesses' soft calling of his name, ignoring his nudity as he stands and walks to the dresser to pull out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Jackson has seen him naked countless times and he certainly doesn't have any secrets from Jesse. The other two, well, he just doesn't care. It all makes so much sense now, the past four years, Scott's sudden improvement in agility, Jackson's secretiveness, Stiles and Derek and the weird deaths in Allison's family. Obviously it's only the tip of the iceberg, but that part at least his brain can compute. But it doesn't quite rip the cover of surreal nature of the morning.

 

He needs to get out of this room.

 

He drags the jeans up his hips and doesn't bother buttoning them before he puts the t-shirt on and walks, barefoot, around Crowley, past Jackson and Kellen. Jackson reaches a hand out to stop him and Danny steps out of reach, hissing, 'Don't.'

 

Then he's out of the room, walking down the steps, and out the front door. He doesn't look back.


End file.
